brain tumours for breakfast

sanka very much

2010-11-03T00:58:00.004Z

my heart swelled. this means i'm in love.

knoxville natives COOLRUNNINGS. heartwarming pop culture reference. heartwarming pop songs. reminiscent of the quaintly crude analogue melodies of casiotone for the painfully alone except infinitely less maudlin, the watery echoed multitracked vocals, arpeggiated synth sounds and drum loops render the songs perfect john hughes soundtrack material. take "burnout", a song about teenage love, loss and being a stoner.

"you're going to have fun but you will still miss me/you're going to be kissed, but not like you kissed me";

the songwriting is simple, but not irritatingly so nor irritatingly shallow (bethany cosetino stand up bitch). it's urgent and earnest, over rolling drums and new wave inflected keyboards and guitars. COOLRUNNINGS adhere to '80s pop song structure and implement euphoric major chord sequences. it can only be described as perfectly fitting that their bandcamp page features a cover of "road to nowhere"; the music is tinted with the electronic pop sounds pursued by talking heads circa brian eno. nostalgic in all facets COOLRUNNINGS may be, their propensity to play with sounds and special effects prevents them from being simply derivative. "buffalo" evokes the kind of fuzzy fairground melodies currently being peddled by no monster club; a wonky, psychedelic pop with jerky doo wop vocals. it's a fantastical formula that is showcased to perfection on "redheads";

i am just besotted. it's simple but textured; nostalgic but not recycled. it's crisp and warm and wistful, like when the sun shines during winter. the two EPs, buffalo and babes forever are availble to download for free on the dracula horse website. i beseech thee to take three minutes of your time to do so; they're just as good as the film. and we all know how good that was. so good my housemates dressed up as the jamaican bobsled team for hallowe'en. the chassis of their bobsled was constructed out of bamboo. it's currently being rained on in our back garden.

stop writing on my pet cloud

2010-11-03T00:26:00.003Z

What’s in a name? For a band it is the foundation of their identity, yet there is no worthy of note anecdote behind “Cloud Nothings”. Whilst trying to come up with the perfect moniker Dylan Baldi eventually settled on two arbitrary words that he thought sounded good together. Yet though Cloud Nothings may conjure connotations of insubstantiality and froth, it is more the carefree methodology behind the band’s baptism that is infused in their achingly heartening lo-fi power pop.

What started with nineteen year old Baldi in his parents’ basement in Ohio with a four track has expanded to a full live band due to embark on their first cluster of European gigs, the latter of which are support slots on the Les Savy Fav tour. He explains; “the recordings are all just me because that’s what I do in my free time when I’m bored, but eventually I had to find a band so I just got some of my friends (TJ Duke, Jayson Gerycz, Joe Boyer) who play music around Cleveland and asked them if they wanted to be in a band”. To date, Baldi’s recordings include a 7” single, a very limited run of split cassettes with Campfires, and an E.P, Turning On, the tracks from which are being sold for a mere 80 cents each online, as an attempt to combat illegal downloading, a way to make available Cloud Nothings’ music to as many people as possible, or both? It turns out to be an awkward question; “I didn’t even know about that. That wasn’t any part of my plan, that was the label! The guy who runs it is definitely rooted in the DIY scene and I would love for as many people as possible to hear it because it’s a very limited vinyl release so I think getting it out there digitally is the way to go” And the reason there wasn’t a CD release? “There’s nothing cool about a CD”

Cloud Nothings’ first full length LP, also titled Turning On, is an assemblage of Baldi’s previous recordings. Released at the end of October through Wichita, he notes the leap that has been taken from releasing a run of 100 tapes to putting out a record with a highly reputable label (signees have included Bloc Party, The Cribs Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Bright Eyes). “With releasing the cassette I sent the guy who wanted to put it out MP3s of the songs and he was like ‘alright, you’ll have your tape in a week!’. With Wichita it felt like doing something real, I didn’t just send them low quality files of the songs”.

The songs themselves are garnering acclaim for their hook-loaded melodies. The instrumentation, reminiscent of early era Pavement endears itself like a crooked smile and the doo wop vocal harmonies are like a Phil Spektor girl group with more testosterone. With testosterone full stop. Baldi is being hailed by many as a precocious talent, his music as throwback to the future; whilst managing to sound fresh and exciting, laden with promise, the songs too are nostalgic sunbursts coloured with flourishes of ‘60s psychedelia, ‘80s punk and ‘90s pop. “That’s my main influence”, Baldi acknowledges, “the poppier elements of everything I listen to- I listen to the radio all the time.”

Yet despite Baldi’s endorsement of mainstream pop and the tongue-in-cheek anti-hipster stance on Cloud Nothings’ 7” single “Hey Cool Kid”, they have been adopted by the same ilk he light-heartedly lampoons; “my band’s not very big, you’d have to read Pitchfork or blogs to kind of know what’s going on, and the people who read those, you could describe as hipsters, so it (Cloud Nothings’ music) kind of speaks to them.” And at the contentious suggestion that said hipsters (at this stage an abstract appellation at best) have been saturating modern music with interchangeable simplistic fuzzy guitar pop and lyrics Baldi is ever the diplomat, noting his friendships with Oberhofer and Beach Fossils, fledgling lo-fi outfits championed by Pitchfork and making reference to Christopher Owen of Girls; “If I grew up in a cult I would probably just want a pizza too, or if I was an orphan or whatever he was”

In the last couple of weeks in July Cloud Nothings travelled to Baltimore to record their first full length LP of entirely new material, working with producer Chester Gwazda (Dan Deacon, Future Islands). Baldi has spoken before of his desire to experiment with a less lo-fi sound, and he confirms that it’s something that was achieved with the forthcoming album; “It’s definitely cleaner. It’s not super polished produced sounding, but it’s definitely cleaner […] It ended up sounding a little bit different than how I had envisioned it but it still sounds good”. Is he worried that the fans he has gained off the back of his early, more rudimentary recordings will bristle at his latest, less raw studio effort? “I think that’s pretty stupid. That (production) isn’t really what I listen for. I think it’s good that bands are wanting to go get themselves produced, get their music out to more people; there’s too many niche markets. People are too into their own thing”

Endearingly, Baldi strongly believes that if a song is inherently good, it shouldn’t be judged on its production whichever end of the spectrum. Reiterating his love for late ‘80s, early ‘90s punk, he references Hüsker Dü. Candy Apple Grey, the band’s first album after moving to a major label was criticised by many fans for its gloss. It seems a fitting point to raise. Baldi’s own opinion on the matter is pointed; “they got a lot poppier, but who cares. It’s still a good album.”

stay fly

2010-10-20T00:01:00.005+01:00

i have a column in TN2 called "wanderlist". each issue i pick a random theme and then detail a small compendium of songs relating to said theme. i initially thought this was an excellent idea but then i stumbled across a mix tape tracklisting entitled "songs to have an abortion"* to and realised that nothing i could come up with would be as peversely amusing as that. so defeated, spirit-crushed and really jealous, i decided to write an article on purple drank.

PURPLE DRANK

“Syrup”, “drank”, “lean”. Popular amongst the Houston hip hop scene and NFL players alike, the cough syrup based cocktail comprised of Sprite and crushed Jolly Ranchers is responsible for codeine induced highs, several cardiac arrests and the vast majority of Weezy’s musical canon. First brought to the fore by Texan producer DJ Screw, in a cruel twist of fate it was in fact the “sizzurp” that brought about his untimely death. Fortunately, his legacy can live on through a myriad of seminal odes to the drank. Warning: may cause tooth decay, obesity and cardiac arrest.

Three 6 Mafia- Sippin’ on Some Syrup

Lyrics such as “we eat so many shrimp I got iodine poisoning” and a Marvin Gaye sample makes this an instant classic

Lil’ Wayne- Me and My Drank

According to the Phoenix New Times, Lil’ Wayne’s a lot funnier now he’s in jail and off the syrup. On the flipside, no syrup = no lyrical content = his musical career will probably go to go to shit. Anyone for some Weezy stand up?

Nicki Minaj- Mind on My Money

A self-styled “ninja Harajuku Barbie” whose song would be entirely neglible if not for a brief reference to lean and a feat. Busta Rhymes. Who is awesome.

Jim Jones- What You Been Drankin’ On?

Regrettably, not the People’s Temple one.

Black Lips- I Saw A Ghost (Lean)

A curveball! Psychedelic garage punk band from Atlanta, Georgia sings of the purple. They may not spit verse, but they’re hardcore because Tesco refused to stock their CD due to explicit content, so it’s ok.

aside from googling recipes for the sweet sizzurp online, i have, of late, been unstoppably enamoured by an act called cloud nothings, the brainchild of 19 year old dylan baldi. technically this means i should hate cloud nothings on account of my propensity to feel suffocating hatred for and bitterness towards anybody who is more successful and of the same age or younger than me.** truly though, this band is brilliant. "lo-fi" is a genre that has been ascribed to so much music in the past couple of years that its mere mention is beginning to irk me more than "chillwave" or "witch house"***, mainly because, like indie and DIY, it's a term that has begun to lose any semblance of meaning. unlistenably shoddy recordings and general talentlessness are given credence and passed off as "lo-fi" it's as if using a four-track nullifies the need for actual musicianship.

but i digress, and find it impossible to extend such bitterness to cloud nothings' fuzzy power pop. it's the musical equivalent of crayons and kaleidoscopes and the feeling of immense pride you get when you ride your bicycle without stabilisers for the first time, emanating warm and '90s nostalgia. the endearingly ramshackle instrumentation is reminiscent of pavement circa slanted and enchanted, there exist sloppy and joyful elements that recall jay reatard's more fizzing pop moments on watch me fall, whilst baldi's vocals evoke and uplift whilst being the just right side of whiney.

* including tracks such as the knife's "we share our mother's health"

** i genuinely felt a lump in my throat upon discovering that nika rosa danilova of zola jesus is only 21. i'd also like to take this moment to mention i have never denied nor tried to suppress my pettiness.

*** i only found about this pitchfork spawned abomination today. are people scared of adjectives these days, they have to condense a multitude of musical elements into one wankery soundbite? am i simply trying to justify my own over-verbosity? either way, i genuinely did use the sentence "what is a witch house?" in conversation today.

Cuando tengo tiempo libre...

2010-10-12T02:51:00.003+01:00

Who would have thought that it was temporally possible for a "Thirty Days of Music" feature to span an exceedingly barren five months? About as possible as it is for there to be 500 Days of Summer and for an be-cardiganed indie boy to think he has found his soulmate just because she knows all the words to "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out"

Dear, sweet, crooked-smiled, double-barreled Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Though beautiful you may be, the trite dialogue bestowed unto you was toe-curling, and the Smiths are more cliche than kismet.

Anyway, I give up. I quit these thirty days just like I quit my ballet, jazz, tap, art, clarinet, piano and guitar lessons. I lack perseverance and motivation. More importantly, in total justification of my extended absence from "Brain Tumours for Breakfast" and on a note that absolves me from being slothful and devoid of motivation, I fell out of love with music. Completely and utterly enveloped by inertia and apathy. My voracious appetite for discovering music, be it old or new was replaced by an aural routine that consisted of listening to Too Fast For Love by Mötley Crüe for three months solid. And although I will always have to suppress the urge to air guitar solo to “Livewire” in polite company, there is only so much of Vince Neil’s pitching I can endure for concentrated periods of time. So I had to break my Crüe habit lest there be a repetition of Prefab Sprout Syndrome* and I could never listen to them again.

Thankfully, taking on the position of Music Editor of TN2, with Karl McDonald of Those Geese Were Stupefied as my sensei has been the primary motivating factor in rekindling the love affair. I also finally got around to listening to Adebisi Shank’s second album and it made all the serotonin in my body rush to my head. And then there was a prolonged bedroom dancing moment featuring Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire”

This weekend, in between working as a waitress in a bar (and believe me, nobody wants me baby, judging on the piss poor tips I made) I’ve spent every available moment rediscovering albums that made my teenage insides surge with excitement** and unearthing new, shiny, delicious, precious gems.

Like THIS one

OK. So Warpaint may not be particularly new; they’ve been around since 2004 and released an EP last year. But their début album The Fool isn’t out ‘til the end of the month. Gossamer-floaty psychedelic folk melodies and whimsical wraithlike vocal harmonies. Throw in a Motown lyric sample and the kin of Shannyn Sossamon*** and I’m indubitably hooked. Plus they’re adorable. TN2’s deputy music editor Gheorghe Rusu interviewed drummer and keyboardist Stella Mozgawa last week, so I’ll post a link on the blog when it’s available for consumption.

I don’t know whether I’m very good at blogging. I’m unreliable, and erratic with my posts and my finger tends to slip off the musical pulse from time to time, but I use footnotes, so that has to count for something.

If you’d like, you can also follow me on Twitter here . Because I do that sometimes. When I remember to. I downloaded a “Tweetdeck” and everything. It translates tweets into foreign languages so I can pretend to be fluent in Spanish.

* Once, I worked for an entire summer in Marks and Spencer. They played but one CD in the store all day every day for said entire summer. I had to listen to “The King of Rock N Roll” six times during the average shift. A perfect piece of ‘80s synth pop with the most bizarre music video of all times featuring a human hotdog dancing beside a swimming pool ruined forever.

** Best Fwends, Alphabetically Arranged, Moshi Moshi 2007 anyone?

*** Who I still maintain is the most breathtaking beautiful human being I have ever seen in my entire life. She is perfection to such an extent that I can only blame her ever so slightly for the fact she named her child Audio Science.

Thirty Days of Music- Part XXI

2010-05-26T14:59:00.003+01:00

I don’t know when exactly it happened anymore, but over the years I gradually made the transformation from being fair skinned to deathly pale. But I like pallor. I think people with unblemished porcelain skin can look flawless. I used to slather myself in fake tan when I was younger; it smelt like shit and came off in flakes and resembled impetigo. When my family and I went on holiday to Portugal my intolerance to heat was so high that I had to go back up to the hotel room every afternoon. In many ways, I’m thankful for this, mainly because it was how I discovered a Portuguese soap opera called Floribella. I didn’t understand what was going on but I made up my own plot lines and became quite attached to the characters. In summation, I am destined to be a pale person. It is the ultimate irony that contrary to popular belief I actually do like sunlight.

I like the feeling of sunshine on my face**. I like when there’s barely any breeze and the air is warm and smells exactly the same as when you first step off the plane on your holidays. It’s impossible to not feel immeasurably happier. When I’m at home I can take my dogs to a forest near my house where there’s the perfect combination of sunlight and shade and it’s not too warm to be unable to concentrate on making sure the blind one doesn’t get lost. I don’t know whether it’s possible to gauge happiness, or what precisely makes you happy, but on some of those walks, on days like those, I have felt my heart swell. Maybe I’m just a sucker for visually impaired canines.

Soaring sunshine forest walks, understandably, need to be sountracked, and what better than by a positive hardcore dance-rap band. From Canada.
Day 21 is a song you listen to when you are happy.

Ninja High School - Shake It Off

This song reminds me of sunshine and paints and every single film I ever loved from my childhood.

* though this may also be attributed to a poorly supplemented vegetarian diet

** even if it is plastered in factor 50 sunscreen

Thirty Days of Music- Part XX

2010-05-18T00:34:00.004+01:00

I was going to attempt to craft a hilarious denunciation of the haemorrhoid on the arse of music that is the genre of nu-metal only to find out that Chris "Down with the Fatness" Krovatin had already articulated my thoughts on matter far more concisely and wittily than I could. The author of "Heavy Metal and You" writes:

"I was there. It was awful! Awful, I tell you. Lord knows how we even survived it. The worst parts of metal and the worst parts of hip-hop, meshed together to form a lumbering force of adolescent rage that threatened to tear us apart. Everyone cutting their hair, or worse, spiking it up and dyeing it blue. Album covers more heavily inspired by manga comics and Elemental Skateboards ads than by Satan or Vietnam. And “Nookie,” Jesus. It was our generation’s great shame, the way that Bon Jovi and Winger must have been to those before us. I know. I was there.

That said: nu-metal produced some interesting results during its short reign over the extreme-music world. Yes, it’s easy to simply dismiss the genre entirely, but to do so would be forsaking the few precious things that the movement spawned, cultural gems we must cling so as not to admit that we completely wasted the late ’90s and early 2000s getting tribal tattoos."

But for every Slipknot, with their swelling body of full, frenetic drums and percussionists, snarling raps and electronic flourishes, and every Korn, all clicking slap bass and staggeringly versatile vocals, there is a heinous aural atrocity of a band that almost nullifies the influence of the former. A pustule that seeks to undermine the authority other acts had tried to afford nu-rave. A turd.

A turd.

Dear Fred Durst,

I will try moderately hard to find the good in you, mainly on account of the fact that the moral philosophy of Humanism posits the notion that human dignity and concerns should be given predominance in life.

We both have a predilection for white Adidas Superstar runners, and although I’ve never admitted it to anyone, I’m secretly quite proud of our footwear affinity. Also, you are responsible for “Crack Addict”, the official theme song of Wrestlemania XIX, one of the greatest Wrestlemanias I have seen, though this probably can be attributed more to Brock Lesnar and his ridiculous shooting star press than you.
Yet Humanism also calls for the primacy of rationality, and the rational mind cannot but concede that you are a ridiculous, egotistical, petulant human being. Admittedly, your puerile outbursts* do hold a certain comedic value, but you are a terrible rapper with lyrics such as “maybe I’ll go eat worms” and “stinky finger”, and your band are so woeful that even Megadeth think they’re shit.

Many thanks,

Pee.

From the ages of fifteen to seventeen I suffered from an imbalance of the humours. That is to say I was somewhat unhinged, and angry, and had a propensity to throw things because it was for me, at the time, the only perceivable way of achieving catharsis. I threw glasses of water, I threw bowls of cereal, and once I even threw a belt. But eventually I realised that I wasn't going to be able to get away with throwing things forever. So now, whenever I feel so angry I fear I may self-implode, I don't throw things. I also don't scream into a pillow because I tried that once and it really hurt my head. Instead, I put my headphones on, make sure I have enough slack in the cord, and thrash my head so hard I'm at serious risk of spraining the muscles in my neck. If this conjures an amusing mental image, you should see me rapping along to "Real Niggaz Don't Die" sitting up in bed like a hospital patient.

And so although Limp Bizkit are the most repugnant discharge from nu-metal, which is, in itself generally an abomination, they provide me with a song that served as perfect head thrashing material for when the Cheerios aren't to hand. Plus, it's ridiculously fun when you're a well brought up, middle class, spindly, soft, posh-voiced girl to shriek things like "I pack a chainsaw/I'll skin your ass raw/And if my day keeps going this way I just might/Break your fucking face tonight". I make no excuses for this song choice, I think it's brilliant.

Day twenty is a song you listen to when you're angry, and the video is fucking hilarious.

* telling the audience at Woodstock to shove their Birkenstocks up their ass, referring to Slipknot fans as "fat, ugly kids", canceling a show because he had a sprained ankle, being a midget.

Fuck this shit, I ain't going to Rik Mayall

2010-05-17T23:23:00.007+01:00
It was the seminal Yorkshire rock band Smokie that put it best when they asked the interminably important question, “who the fuck is Alice?” Conflicting speculation has conjured ethereal images of a backing band retaining the name of their departed lead singer, a spurned artist’s homage to an inimitable former lover, and crazed, manic muses. Yet it’s unlikely that anybody really gives a fuck about Alice, for beneath a veil of oblique and mystique lie a band that blends canonical literary allusions and mythology with insolence, incensed guts and a vigour more exciting than any intangible namesake.

The nature versus nurture debate is easily applicable to a counterculture that has been steadily and progressively bastardised since the ‘70s to such an extent that the likes of Sum 41 with Deryck “the human blister” Whibley and Bowling for Soup could ostensibly be classified using the now cavernous umbrella term ‘punk’. Issues of authenticity and the predicament of the “poseur” have long been in the foreground, but is it just to accuse a band of shitting on the legacy of such luminaries as the Ramones, the Sex Pistols, the Clash (the holy trinity of protopunk?) just because your music isn’t politically or socially motivated and you aren’t an advocate of nihilism, anarchism, or any other radical, liberal precepts that end with the suffix ‘ism’.

The Alice Kona Band aren’t drug addled, disaffected gutter punks concerned with anti-consumerism, social liberalism, and three guitar chords. In fact, they’re really quite nice, well brought up young men, who just so happen to subscribe to the sonic ideology of Kurt Cobain, who claimed that “punk is musical freedom. It’s saying, doing and playing what you want”. This refusal to yield to anyone’s standards except their own has generated an assortment of feverish, unrefined songs whose elements summon recollections of the D.C. hardcore scene- the vitality, aggression and inherent melodic hooks of bands such as Bad Brains and Minutemen, and the ramshackle, crude progeny of glam rock; ‘70s L.A punk bands such as the Germs. Ryan Wiles, singer and guitarist in the thrice figureheaded outfit claims; “we don’t lie to anyone, we don’t make out we’re something we’re not. We haven’t budged or taken on board any criticism, constructive or not.” These traces of the punk aesthetic and ethos, combined with other musical influences such as ‘50s surf music and ‘60s girl groups in the vein of the Crystals and the Shangri-Las, they produce a subversive wall of sound that would make Phil Spector roll in his prison cell. Yet just because the band borrow from various influential genres and eras of music, they’re not simply unstimulated, unstimulating parody; Wiles claims, “if I did sing about diners and my best girl, we'd be fucking irrelevant”. The band harnesses its musical freedom with frank lyrics which read like the inner monologue of the protagonist in a Salinger novel set to music; personal, pathetic, impassioned and possibly in need of psychoanalysis.

Just as Pat Smear was the only member of the Germs who had any prior musical experience whatsoever, so too do the Alice Kona Band have a propensity to pass over tight technical ability in favour of all that is ad hoc and impulsive, qualities that make them insistently exciting. The band’s recordings thus far aren’t anywhere as gripping as seeing them live; whilst they capture a marriage of melody and discord, there has been a slight dilution of Alice Kona’s special brand of doo-wop-desecrated-by-hacksaw-guitars. Perhaps it’s just too difficult to cut a record that can embody band members bleeding over a stage, instruments being smashed to pieces, frontmen screaming with such putrescence they’re on the verge of passing out. The vocals are nasal and snarling and evocative and not entirely dissimilar to Patrick Stickles of Titus Andronicus, or at times, TSOL’s Jack Grisham. The guitars have been raped by feedback to within an inch of their lives, and battle with one another for supremacy. Erratic solos screech over thrusting bass, and it’s all a glorious mess that ultimately delivers that trademark Nirvana mangled union of inherent rage and accessible pop.

The Alice Kona Band- Scavengers by peesmith

The Alice Kona Band- Go Ask Alice by peesmith

The Alice Kona Band- Death Record by peesmith

More acerbic than curdled milk and most misanthropic, the Alice Kona Band may not give a shit but they deserve your attention. They play Lavery’s Bunker on 29th May with the Cast of Cheers. It is but a mere five of the queen’s pounds in, and your attendance is essential.

* Their drummer didn't know how to play his instrument upon joining the band. Inneresting

Oh Logik, up yours!

2010-05-15T01:21:00.004+01:00

A bout of pop outfits have, of late, suggested that all you need to do is impersonate Kate Bush*, dress like a redundant cast member of The Muppet Show or flaunt your bi-curiosity to be considered an inventive, inspiring female performer, as distinctive vocal aptitude appears to be becoming less applicable. I am without doubt that visual spectacle is an imperative and often enriching element of any performance, but it’s even more effective when coupled with true musical flair.

What’s in a name? Before even listening to Logikparty they conjured notions of the kind of deadening minimalistic techno whose torture, upon listening, feels eternal. How wrong I was. Preconceptions- 1, Pee- 0.
They are noir, barbed, caustic; gritty incantations that pervade your person and hold you in their glorious, gloomy thrall. One of the most exciting components of the band are frontwoman Benni’s vocals, which serve as a model of how to harness the power that can be generated by an innovative female voice. She has the grit of Brody Dalle, the piercing shrieks of Kathleen Hanna and the delightfully discordant drone of Poly Styrene down to a fine art, and set against a persuasive fusion of gothic rock and ’70 post punk.

On “Iodine”, she sings, “I think I’m evolving back in time”; particularly appropriate lyrics as Logikparty bring to mind the austere pull of Bauhaus, the Birthday Party’s coarse, crashing melody, and the raw power of Siouxsie and the Banshees circa “The Scream”.

They’re a band that harvest songs out of clattering rhythms, and uncompromisingly crotchety guitars. “Good Hood” is a swell of harsh, jarring riffs and a meandering guitar line that contains traces of purist psychobilly, which breaks down into brusque, chunky bursts of melody and gang vocals**, whilst the aforementioned “Iodine” is driven by Benni’s brilliant vocal quirks and serrated yelps, all of which are complemented by equally jagged instrumentation and a galloping pulse of a bass line.

If there’s no No Wave, then there’s no fun, but thankfully Logikparty embody both in abundance.

To listen to their songs and for more information, visit their Myspace*** here
You can also buy from the Rough Trade shop here

Myspace and Rough Trade! It’s just too quaint.

* poorly, Marina. Poorly.

** Why am I such a sucker for gang vocals? It’s almost as bad as my obsession with vocoders.

*** I pine for a Myspace revolution so hard. I miss wasting hours of my adolescent life re-decorating my profile.

Ham handed

2010-05-07T23:23:00.012+01:00
Ham Sandwich’s new single “The Naturist”*, is simple, charming folk pop. Quaint melodies, twinned with simultaneously jangling and hard-hitting percussion, underpin the twee harmonies created by Podge and Niamh’s shared vocals. Niamh’s voice in particular is light and sweet, (like candyfloss, or possibly a meringue) and tenderly emotive. There are handclaps, there are bells, there are chimes decorating a song that gradually builds to an ornately layered, soaring pique.

Ham Sandwich, you had me at banjo.

Ham Sandwich - The Naturist

* released next Friday

Semen stains the mountaintops

2010-05-07T22:41:00.003+01:00
Neutral Milk Hotel are perfect.
Jeff Mangum’s voice is warm and wobbling, as if he’s so loaded with emotion he may burst into tears at any second. The lyrics are evocative and eloquent, weaving a rich tapestry of tales that are dark and beautiful, a sentiment particularly fitting when considering that “In The Aeroplane Over The Sea” is a concept album with the tragic life of Anne Frank as its subject matter.

Neutral Milk Hotel is sheer feeling permeating experimental acoustic symphony. I sometimes wonder what fate would have been assigned to their eclectic indie folk had if they had taken the support slot on an R.E.M tour in ’98, if they had taken up any requests for shows, if the impassioned, introspective, but ultimately delicate Jeff Mangum hadn’t completely wilted in a winter of discontent after a year of touring.

It’s unlikely that Mangum will tour or record again, and I hope it remains that way, that he remains a perfectly preserved folk fairy tale, with a legacy of exquisite but scant records. Last night in New York, he played some songs from those records at a Chris Knox benefit; “Oh Comely”, “A Baby for Pree/Where You’ll Find Me Now”, “Two Headed Boy Pt. 2”, “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea”, “Engine”

Thirty Days of Music- Part XIX

2010-05-07T22:02:00.004+01:00

Every time I am afforded the opportunity to write about Mclusky, I feel nothing less than disgustingly giddy to the point of nausea.

People only started taking notice of the Welsh wunderkind after the release of “Mclusky Do Dallas” in 2002, but before the reign of Albini, there was a smattering of songs that started life as demos and developed into a no-wave début, unbridled in its coarseness, thrilling in its vigour.

“The Difference Between Me and You Is That I’m Not On Fire” could almost be deemed my favourite album on the merits of “Without MSG I am Nothing” alone*, but the reason that particular accolade is bestowed upon “My Pain and Sadness is more Sad and Painful than Yours” is probably the same reason almost every indie popper in existence cites “Slanted and Enchanted” as their favourite Pavement album. Not because they “lost it” after Gary Young left. He was a perpetually drunk hippie who couldn’t play in time. Because there’s nothing quite like your first time. It may be absolutely atrocious compared to future times, to more polished, perfected attempts, like the Wowee Zowees of the world (which, by the way, is infinitely better than Slanted…), but sometimes, the sound of a band in the fledgling throes of cutting an LP, the roughness, the green passion, combine and create an unforgettable sonic sucker punch in a tremulous gut.

I digress.

“My Pain and Sadness” is, and always will be my favourite Mclusky album and my favourite album period, for many reasons. I detest lo-fi born out of laziness, but I also don’t demonise the four track. This album is a paradigm of finding beauty in the DIY shambolic. The songs are heavier, crunchier, chaotic, gruelling, arduous, introspective, reflective, affecting, arousing and exciting than anything else the band has produced. Only just, mind.

Day nineteen is a song from your favourite album.

* a DISGUSTINGLY brilliant song

Thirty Days of Music- Part XVIII

2010-05-07T21:16:00.002+01:00
Brainiac are the pinnacle of synth-punk. It slightly disgusts me that Ben Gibbard claims they have heavily influenced him, but sometimes musical progeny is far from prodigious (See: Death Cab for Cutie)*. It fails to detract from a sublime entanglement of blunted guitar riffs, Moogs, vocoders and choice samples. Brainiac have the dissonant and jarring traits of harcore, whilst managing to incorporate the melodious nature of pop. Hardcore pop. Hardcore pop anchored by one of the most inventive and versatile vocalists of recent years. Tim Taylor is superlative in his ability to revert seamlessly from choked whispers to inward screams to husky, curdled yells, to Elvis impersonations, to falsetto, to something more tuneful altogether. The band disbanded in 1997 after Taylor was killed in a car accident, but their legacy consists of three delectable albums (in particular “Bonsai Superstar”), a highly influential electronic-based EP “Electro-Shock for President” and a deluge of rarities, from tributes to Pere Ubu to spilt 7”s with Bratmobile.

Day eighteen is a song you wish you heard on the radio.

Brainiac- Juicy (On a Cadillac) by peesmith

I’ve never heard Brainiac on the radio, but I imagine if I ever did, it’d induce a kind of feeling matched by the time they started playing “Gold Soundz” in Whelans, though not accompanied by the crushing despair when they stopped playing “Gold Soundz” after seven seconds.

* this blog is fast becoming one massive shit upon the heads of Death Cab

Thirty Days of Music- Part XVII

2010-05-07T20:49:00.006+01:00
Last summer we went on an adventure to Glastonbury. To say the weather was capricious would be an understatement, we all somehow managed to be completely impoverished* for the duration of the trip, and I ended up missing my flight home and having a mortifying mental breakdown. Nevertheless, our festive period had its advantages. Having disposable barbecues whilst listening to Bruce Springsteen in the distance, watching the majority of the 1997 sci-fi parody film "Starship Troopers" starring Denise "I haven't had a purpose since being mastubatory fodder in 'Wild Things'" Richards.

Now, every time we're in the car and Florence & the Machine comes on Phantom FM, Jamie Fox and I try to see how quickly we can change the station. But last summer, when we went to watch her set at the festival I was blown away by her performance. The stage was wreathed in flowers, she was dressed like a water nymph**, and Florence was dangling wrecklessly from scaffolding whilst singing ornately instrumented songs with a voice that was soulful and ethereal in equal measures. One of the problems I encountered with Glastonbury was the sheer size of the place; the fact it could take one hour to get from one stage to another meant I ended up missing a lot of acts I had quite wanted to see. Florence and the Machine was one of the few gigs we managed to make, and I loved it. Her vocals were insanely forceful; it was sheer delightful spectacle. And then she fell victim to merciless over-exposure.

Day seventeen is a song that you often hear on the radio.

Florence and the Machine- Dog Days Are Over by peesmith

* spending my last five pounds on a box of cigarettes from a haggard lady riding down a hill on a bicycle only to find out they were counterfeit was possibly one of the most crushing moments of my life.

** albeit it one who looks like a partially melted waxwork that's hardened again.

Thirty Days of Music- Part XVI

2010-05-07T20:06:00.005+01:00
I've only ever had one job before*. When I had just turned sixteen years old my mommy, in a vain attempt to teach me the value of money, stipulated I would have to seek employment if I wanted any semblance of a social life. Living in Conlig, a small village affectionately referred to by some as the arsehole of Bangor and Newtownards, is potentially highly detrimental to culturing friendships, particularly if the majority of those friends live in Belfast aka the "Big Smoke"**, aka civilisation. So with immense fear and trepidation I filled in an application form and secured an interview with Marks and Spencer.

It's important to note that when I was sixteen, I was a husk of the well-rounded individual I am today***; if I was out shopping I'd have to give money to whoever I was with at the time so they could purchase my items for me so I didn't have to interact with the shop assistant. If my house phone rang, and nobody else was there to answer it I would let it ring out rather than having to talk to somebody I potentially didn't know. And, of course, ordering food in restaurants was simply not an option.

Remembering that job interview makes my internal organs clench with mortifcation. I was so terrified I had to try to force words out in between my fits of hyperventilation. My first day on the job I was shaking so much when I gave my first customer their change I dropped it all over the counter.

Fuck knows how I got that job, but having to talk to a stream of veritable unknowns for eight hours a day every day caused my confidence to burgeon. Yet apart from the fact it enabled me to become a fully-functioning member of society and I got to make up games involving trying to scan items through the till as quickly as possible, I hated working there so much. I hated the employees, supercilious old women who acted as if they were my superior even though we were earning the same wage and took delight in telling me how dry my bleached hair looked in between asking if I was a goth. I hated how hardly anybody frequented my department and hours seemed like aeons. I hated how little pay I got and how they expected me to work forty-eight hour weeks the whole summer. I hated the fact that they fired my sister because she took three days off work with swine flu. And I hated the music they piped into the shop.

Shop music is infinitely worse than elevator music, I know this to be a fact. Generally speaking, you only have to stay in an elevator for approximately one-two minutes, so whatever watery, repetitive song that's being streamed into what soon becomes the irritatingly confined space is easily and quickly escapable. Marks and Spencer played the same CD every day for four months. I know this, because I was there for nearly every day of those four months. It was a curious blend of Christian Rock, Sarah Bareilles, the Boomtown Rats and a song that I used to absolutely adore that has, as a direct consequence of management's inability to burn another fucking CD, been completely ruined for me.

Day sixteen is a song you used to love but now hate.

Prefab Sprout - The King of Rock n Roll by peesmith
It really upsets me that I hate this song. Prefab Sprout are clearly one of Newcastle's greatest musical exports, second only to Cheryl Cole.

Boasting synths that try to emulate the sounds of a bull frog, a compellingly nonsensical chorus and a musical video featuring a frog waiter and humans dressed as hot dogs, all they wanted to do was change the world with music

* though if anybody asks, my curriculum vitae tells a different story.

** if you're from Derry

*** he he

Thirty Days of Music- Part XV

2010-05-03T18:56:00.003+01:00
Finally, we hath hit the halfway mark of this experiment in musical nostalgia. Am going to be v. fucked for content when this is over.

Day fifteen is a song that describes you.

Presumably then, the purpose of this blog entry is simply to post the song and let it emote for itself. I much prefer speaking for music than allowing it to speak for me; I'm going to find this hard.I am the exemplar of tangental dialogue, non-witty non-sequitirs and verbosity. I'm also a control freak.

It is with agitated typing finger, then, that I pass the floor to Jeff Mangum, gloriously awkward spoken word introduction and all.

For your information, everyone knows monsters prefer blondes

2010-05-03T12:35:00.007+01:00
Fresh from drunkenly calling the audience at his IMRO showcase gig in Kill, Co. Kildare "fuckers", I Love The Monster Hero is a one man band who must have been an employee of the DayGlo Color Corporation at one stage or another, pedaling a lusciously luminous concoction of 8-bit blips, distorted guitars drum machines and loops. Oscillating between an experimental psychedelic pop much akin to the Olivia Tremor Control or the 13th Floor Elevators, fuzz-quilted folk with bite and fizzy, sparsely instrumented dance pop, the music is as frivolous and eclectic as the B-movie to which the name pays homage*

I Love The Monster Hero is winsome musical collage, a mash-up of primitive sounds that toe the line between lo-fi and no-fi but together manage to engender an instinctively hooking, bubbly sunshine pop. The rough, gleeful, quirk addled qualities of the band are sublimely showcased on "Toni Bailey", a synthetic, buoyant blast of distortion and sparkling chimes and "Little Gem", which, with its simple, slightly coarse guitar lines and layered vocals, will stick like velcro.

The eternally listenable tunes of I Love Monster hero are available for all ears here

* "I Love the Monster Hero" is a reference to "The Toxic Avenger", a mid '80s comic caper about a weedy mop boy called Melvin who accidentally falls into a barrel of toxic waste and is hence transformed into the local disfigured Superhero, affectionately referred to as "Toxie". Adorable.

Thirty Days of Music Part XIV

2010-05-02T20:24:00.008+01:00
Day fourteen is a song no one would expect you to love.

Unless I struck you as the kind of girl that harbours an adoration for poorly recorded electroclash queercore.

Genre appellations have spiraled unstoppably and ridiculously out of control since the late '90s. The above translated, is essentially a girl band with riot grrrl roots, toe-curlingly sexually explicit lyrics and a drum machine. Together, Chunx, Hunx, Junx and Funx ( Drunx left the band, presumably because of her burgeoning alcohol problem) are Gravy Train!!!

They sing about sexually depraved Catholic schoolgirls and sodomy. They have sountracked an alt-porn film called "Neu Wave Hookers". They released an E.P. entitled "Ghost Boobs". They are unstoppably ridiculous, and terrible, yet simultaneously delightfully trashy and brash and obnoxious and catchy. And for all these reasons I find it entirely okay that "Sippin' 40z" sounds like it was recorded with one microphone in somebody's toilet, because it could only ever possibly add to their lo-fi-fucked-up charm.

Thirty Days of Music- Part XIII

2010-05-02T19:13:00.004+01:00
When I was very little my daddy owned a mustard yellow Volvo 240. An elongated, boxy lemon affectionately referred to as the Custard Carton*, being a passenger in this veritable behemoth of an automobile partly conjured notions of being in a limousine, and partly conjured notions of being in the hearse from "Harold and Maude". I loved it. I loved the dusty walnut dash, and the beige waffle-print seats and the fact it smelled like antiseptic hand gel and old newspapers** Being able to sit in the front seat was also the greatest of privileges, because it meant you got to pick which cassettes were played in the tape deck.

I like to think I absolved myself from any musical snobbery a couple of years ago when I realised that music was becoming throwaway to me, and I was devouring one song for each of the forty bands I listened to every day for the soul-destroying purpose of being able to cite indie bands that were yet to be conceived as my Myspace musical preferences. My relationships with bands had no longevity; it was perfunctory, sans courtship. Romance was well and truly dead. After a while I thought it best that music and I got to know each other a little better, and in my attempts to eradicate any sense of elitism, subscribed to the Hank Williams School of Equality: our motto is "a good song is a good song". As a result, I thought it would be impossible for me to write about a song I regard as a "guilty pleasure". In the Hank Williams School, there are no guilty pleasures.

Then I remembered the last tape I'd played in the Custard Carton. I remember specifically it was the last cassette, because it become lodged in the tape deck and we were never able to eject it again. Years later, my daddy and I took a roadtrip to Oxford, where I went to a piano recital in a church because nobody would take me the pub, and made friends with a Scottish Big Issue vendor who called me "darlin'" and made me melt. On the way there, I decided to turn on the radio and was greeted by one of the songs that held my childhood together at the seams.

Even though I know this is terrible manufactured bubblegum Eurotrash, I cannot help but still love this song.
Day thirteen is a song that is a guilty pleasure. Please spend five minutes watching the hilarious music video. It's entirely worth it

If I still had a Myspace, my number one band would be a Danish outfit with a penchant for puns***, the sexualisation of plastic dolls and grandiose, flourishing Disney dance pop. In an entirely non-ironic way.

* I'm personally very pleased about the fact I've used three different descriptive tones for the colour yellow in two sentences.

** My daddy has OCD, and, consequently, an enveloping phobia of germs of all descriptions. Incidentally, he's also a hoarder. E! True Hollywood Story to follow

*** Album names include "Aquarius" and "Aquarium". Inventive

Thirty Days of Music- Part XII

2010-05-02T16:02:00.003+01:00

Zooey Deschanel is entirely overrated, placed on a pedestal and revered by underfed, simpering indie boys as if she was a twenty-first century Helen of Troy. Her inconceivably wide eyes, her twee apparel that comes in an assortment of blush colours and is complemented by knee socks that cut off at the perfect section of her shin, the fact she has the perfect “fringe to face” ratio. In reality, Zooey is just like every other majestically mousey girl who carries a second hand satchel and listens to Sarah Records/C86. Her only advantages are that she’s named after a J.D. Salinger novel and can play the ukulele.

Though commended for her ‘deadpan’ acting style, it’s probably more realistic to claim that she can’t actually act, and that the series of crap films she’s featured in of late are nothing more than yet another vehicle to showcase her feeble vocal stylings*

It’s fitting though, that her aforementioned feeble vocal stylings exist in matrimonial bliss with another set of equally if not more feeble vocal stylings. Oh Ben Gibbard, we barely knew thee, until the release of Transatlanticism and then we knew thee far too well, and such knowledge induced undulating sensations of nausea.

I hate Death Cab for Cutie. The fact that I MAY have listened to “Bixby Canyon Bridge” and felt moved (emotionally, not in a provocation of bile sort of way) does not detract from this statement. I was emotional and had eaten too many scones. They’re a band that is simply the expression of mawkish lamentations that seem hollow, devoid of any discernable sincerity that qualifies repulsive lyrics such as the following

“I do believe it's true
That there are roads left in both of our shoes
But if the silence takes you
Then I hope it takes me too”

Their lyrics remind me of the kind of poetry I wrote when I was fifteen and wanted to exude emotion and heartfeeling. But I was fifteen and hadn’t experienced life, so instead I wrote a series of cloying sentences and used a thesaurus to make me seem more literary-minded and intelligent.**

Day twelve is a song from a band you hate

Death Cab For Cutie- A Lack Of Color by peesmith

I think my major contention with Death Cab is that I don’t for one second believe in what I’m listening to; it’s characterless, and trite, the instrumentation wishy-washy even at its most experimental. Just because a vocalist has a highly distinctive voice, it doesn’t always have to be to the detriment of the music, if it’s enjoyably idiosyncratic. Take note: Stephen Malkmus, Spencer Krug, J. Mascis, Craig Finn. Don’t take note: Matt Bellamy, Ben Gibbard. Every time I hear his irritating little plaintive wail, it makes me want to punch something, ideally his face.

* M. Ward, get out while you still can!

** I actually won a prize for my verse writing. They laminated the poems and put them up on a wall in school. The same wall on which they put up laminated Papa Roach lyrics that a student had submitted and passed off as a poem of his own.

Thirty Days of Music- Part XI

2010-04-24T15:10:00.006+01:00
I have a propensity to be cripplingly shy on first meeting. I'm an introvert, and I don't fare well in large groups of people. But I can thrive engaging a small amount at a time. The art of a good conversation devoid of awkward silences is pinned upon asking questions. Questions, be they trivial, random or slightly more astute, serve as an invaluable buttress to any chat.

And yet there is one question that is more awkward to answer than all the awkward silences in the world comined:

"So, what kind of music are you into?"
If only there was some sort of universal law that response could come in the form of simply handing over your ipod for scrutiny. Instead, any potential answer is beseiged with potholes. If you list off a handful of genres, you sound like a wanker. If you list off a handful of bands the other person hasn't heard of (how do you gauge this?), you sound like a wanker. If you say nothing, you sound like a rude wanker.

I've taken to answering it by just telling people about my favourite band; even if they haven't listened to the music, the chances are if you talk about something with enough enthusiasm, it's a conversational contagion.

I really, truly love Mclusky. I love every song off every album. I even tried to love their acoustic session, but it was too disturbing coming from the band responsible for "My Pain and Sadness is more Sad and Painful than Yours" to invoke appreciation. The wry, dry, obnoxious wit of Andy Falkous' lyrics is unparallelled. For anybody who has read the Falko-penned Future of the Left blog, he is infectious cynicism, sarcasm and overriding intelligence manifest. He's an incredibly angry man, though I've been told he's also very lovely. One of the loveliest and most thoughtful things somebody has ever done for me was when Jamie Fox tried to get some signed Mclusky vinyl for Christmas. Apparently, Mclusky vinyl is so rare that even Mclusky don't have any. It can only be assumed that its rarity is directly linked to its brilliance.

From the inane, crunching power-punk of "Mclusky do Dallas", to the more polished pop sensibilities inherent in "The Only Difference Between Me and You Is That I'm Not On Fire", Mclusky are consistently acerbic, beautifully cacophanous. Jon Chapple's bass is body-reverberating, the drums are pounded with a possessing purpose, and Falko's vocals, so wraught with feeling they come off as an invocation to spit, scream and swear like Regan from The Exorcist, in between the soaring melodic interludes such as "She Will Only Bring You Happiness". Far from the pinnacle of precision, Mclusky were never a band that were tight; always more chaotic than composed, their live performances were never awe-inspiring. In fact they were probably a wee bit crap. But beneath the occasional slop, the soul-driving distortion, true genius lies. My favourite band, inciting heart-rends and headbangs, flawed but ultimately flawless.

Mclusky- Falco vs. the young canoeist

Thirty Days of Music- Part X

2010-04-24T14:03:00.004+01:00
Generally I don't fall asleep listening to music. It stems from the fact I would listen to music solely on headphones if I could, a predilection when coupled with my tendency to roll over in bed abundantly (to find the comfy spot), leads to moderately rational fears that I may die one night by accidentally asphyxiating myself in bed with wires. Admittedly, this was less terrifying than the time I woke up one morning and realised the piece of gum I had been chewing the night before was still in my mouth.

Day ten is a song that you can fall asleep to.

I was going to choose Explosions in the Sky's "Glittering Blackness". It reminds me of being in bed late at night sending texts to my friend Pumpkin; a small event of happiness immeasurably enhanced by what is an unrelentingly gorgeous song. It has one of the most heart-wrenching guitar lines and delicate harmonics I've ever heard. Then I remembered it probably wasn't the most fitting song to write about, considering when the marching band drums, shattering cymbals and reverb-laden guitars obliterate the softness, surprisingly, I woke up.

Day ten is a song you can actually fall asleep to.

We should all feel eternally indebted to Sushil Dade for turning down the opportunity to play bass for Kylie Minogue. Without this selfless sacrifice, the glorious Future Pilot AKA may never have come into existence. So far, four albums have been released under the Future Pilot moniker, one of which is crap*, one of which it is imperative that everybody listens to at least once in their lives. The eclecticism of his music parallels that of the assortment of contributors to the Future Pilot project- Philip Glass, Thurston Moore & Kim Gordon, Damo Suzuki from Can, The Pastels.

There is no more apt an example of the delightful blend of twee Glaswegian indie pop and classical Indian melody showcased on "Tiny Waves, Mighty Sea" than the fact that Stuart Murdoch from Belle and Sebastian sings the lyrics on a song entitled "Om Namah Shivaya". The album is tranquil, dreamy, jangly; glockenspiel chimes and ethereal backing vocals. There are surging instrumental interludes with tremolo bass and fluttering sax. There is feedback and distortion. There's a rendition of "Beautiful Dreamer" sung by a 96 year woman named Julia whom Dade met whilst working for an Alzheimer's charity in Scotland. It's an album that is tender, vigorous, experimental, essential. It's also an album that houses one of the most beautiful lullabies that acts as a sublime soundtrack for slumber.

Future Pilot AKA- Opel Waters

* "Secrets from the Clockhouse", step forward

Thirty Days of Music- Part IX

2010-04-21T14:37:00.002+01:00
At this stage I'm just showing off about the fact I'm very competent with roman numerals.

I have a reputation for being long of limb. My arms and legs are gangly to the point they're disproportionate to the rest of my body, and during photographs it's not uncommon for my wrists to bend back in awkward positions, capturing the more mongoloid nature of my person.

I also have a reputation for dancing. As one could imagine, these two reputations work together to render me a flailing mongoloid.* When I was younger, I steadfastly refused to dance at all oun account of I was prone to throwing shapes with my mommy to Depeche Mode and the Cure in our kitchen and my sister had a caustic tongue. Having no co-ordination was a curse. I couldn't learn off any dance routines in the playground when I was younger because I'd been known to fall simply by tripping over my own feet. I couldn't dance seductively in nightclubs when I first started going at the age of sixteen because having arms that are twice the length of your entire body is not seductive. Also, I had no breasts. I remember the first time I ever got into a nightclub without any ID, it was dark and damp, the floor was sticky, the smoke machines were broken and emitting a grime-inflected wheeze. If only I'd have sunk a few pineapple bacardi breezers and bust some moves on the adhesive dance floor. But no. I sat quietly in a shadowy corner the whole night and had a terrible time and my friends probably thought I was a boring bitch.**

And then one day, something miraculous happened. I stopped caring about whether people would laugh at me (because they inevitably would) and started dancing. It was like a poignant and soaring moment from a Julia Stiles ballet based romantic drama. I danced around my kitchen, I danced in my bedroom, I danced around the lake near my house that overlooks a church (until members of the congregation having a fag break saw me), and I danced on nights out. It didn't matter whether I looked like I was having an epileptic fit, or accidentally knocked drinks out of peoples' hands who were standing meters away; I was having fun.

Day nine is a song you that you can dance to.

The Rapture- Whoo! Alright-Yeah...Uh Huh by peesmith

Everything about this song invokes in me the power of clumsy dance. The sporadic percussion, the shuddering guitar, the descending bass line, Luke Jenner's high-pitched vocal quirks, the call and response gang shouts. And of course, the cowbell.***

* I've used the word 'mongoloid' twice now. For anybody who thought I was going to pick a Devo song I apologise sincerely for leading you up the primrose path.

** The veracity of this description is completely up for debate.

*** I'm starting to think I have Christopher Walken-like levels of obsession with cowbell.

The ghost of hardcore-post

2010-04-20T12:10:00.008+01:00
"Jogging is very beneficial. It's good for your legs and your feet. It's also very good for the ground. It makes it feel needed."*

The level of influence music has is relative to its situe**; in this respect, it could be argued that the Richter Collective is shaping up to be Dublin's closest corally to the olympian opuses from Athens that were the Elephant Six. Except thrashier. And sans Jeff Mangum. Sitting comfortably alongside such labelmates as robot rock outfit Adebisi Shank and the delectably jerky BATS, Jogging are poised to release their debut album on the 2nd May, and are currently streaming it on their website, which can be found here

Imbued in Minutes is an inescapable freneticism that perpetually underpins a happy marriage of discordance and melody. Mastered by T.J. Lipple, who has a penchant for producing Dischord Records acts and Washington indie rock, glimmers of the D.C. post-hardcore scene that thrived in the late '80s and early '90s are ingrained in the tracks. "Shattered Knees" invokes nuances of Les Savy Fav, blending pieces of punk with pop sensibilities, whilst the infectious dance punk of Q and Not U emanates from "Shape up Shakedown". Yet on a foundation of Jawbox noise rock, Jogging culture a sound that is distinctly their own.

One of the most striking features of the album is the vocal diversity, the subtle changes in tone that can revert from an agitated Fearghal McKee on "Not Simple" to the juddering grit of Joe Strummer on "Threadbare". Forceful and emotive, flanked by gang shouts, maniacal yells and guttural quirks, it is the vocals that are constantly driving, the backlight of an enlivened percussion which sounds like every part of the drum kit is being beaten to death.

Every single song is dynamic and multi-faceted; each melodic peak and trough explicit, gifted with malleability. "Bruises like Bow Ties"- starts with an accessible, poppy guitar riff that could have been lifted from a Kings of Leon song. Yet suddenly it's layered with a gravelly bass line, dance-infused drums and mono-tone rasping, before being subjected to countless tempo, tone, and mood changes which wholly unarm the listener; five songs are rolled into one, and yet each one is equally as compelling as the last. "Cleft Chin...", meanwhile, is an unadulterated aural clobber. The shortest song on Minutes, it's arguably one of the best, as bass and guitar lines compete to punch their way through crashing cymbals and anguished, husky wails of 'I've got blood on my hands'. Concise and, like the album in its entirety, crushingly effective. It's indisputable that Minutes is a hardcore coup

* Charles Schulz, Peanuts

** This is presumably why nobody outside of Ireland has ever fucking heard of the Blizzards

Thirty Days of Music- Part VIII

2010-04-20T11:08:00.002+01:00
I'm endlessly fascinated by the fact that the sense of smell is so intrinsically associated with memories, particularly memories of people. Something as minute as a certain brand of shampoo conjures remembrances of a certain stage in my life. I like it; sometimes it's terrifying to me that after a while, memories and people become so hazy they're almost faceless, and barely seem like they were a reality.
Thankfully I'll never forget my first boyfriend, because not only can I associate a smell with him, I have the potent powers of Guns N Roses.

Use Your Illusion II is, without question one of my favourite albums of all times.* An impeccable cover of "Knockin' on Heaven's Door"**, a lead single that features in Terminator II*** and "So Fine", a song that showcases one of the most beautiful men in the world, Duff McKagan, and his obscenely husky vocals. One of my favourite things about being fifteen was driving in a car with a boy listening to this CD on repeat and feeling unstoppably grown up and excited about life. I think we went to the aquarium once.

I can't remember quite how many time I've listened to Use Your Illusion II, but it's enough to be able to sing every single word, including Axl's angry rant-rap, to my favourite song on the album.

Day eight is a song you know all the words to:

I melt every time I hear Slash's guitar in this song.

Incidentally, if you happen to be sniffing at my unadulterated love for Guns N Roses (it's a possibility), watch the Youtube video below. It may be ten minutes long, but it's absolutely spectacular. Axl Rose mid-sprint, delivering a perfect performance!

* Let's just pretend that "My World" is a song that doesn't actually exist on account of it's horrible and embarrassing and a prime example of Axl Rose's imminent jumping of a shark.

** it only just pips Avril Lavigne's version. That Canadian powerhouse of a pseudo-emo.

*** I have absolutely no idea why this film would ever get criticism. When the Terminator sacrifices himself by very, very VERY slowly lowering himself into a vat of molten steel to save the prepubescent girl that is Edward Furlong, it's nothing short of heart-rending.

Thirty Days of Music- Part VII

2010-04-17T13:05:00.004+01:00
Before I moved to Dublin it seemed like one of the most exciting, cosmopolitan cities ever. I remember spending one New Years when I was seventeen walking around the deserted streets and it was like a magical glow was emanating from every building. It's bizarre how your first memory of something always remains separate, more romantic than your continued experiences of it. That first, fledgling Dublin seems like a different place to how I know it now. Yesterday, I walked down Henry Street and it was like something out of a Shane Meadows film*, dirty, bleak, people screaming in my face asking me if I wanted hair extensions or if I liked cats and dogs.

When I was seventeen years old I took an A level in Religious Studies. I studied Economics for a week and then realised I couldn't read graphs so I changed subjects. When I walked into the class my teacher asked me if it was a joke, presumably because I'd gained a reputation as a liberal atheist getting into raging arguments with people about homosexuality and abortion. I thought it'd be a doss. It wasn't really, but it was one of the best classes I ever took. I loved my teachers, especially Dr. Keys. She wore tartan waistcoats and jumpers with pictures of dogs on them and would tell us the world was going to end in our lifetime. If we didn't want to do work that day, we'd repeatedly ask her to speak in tongues.

These two stories, incidentally, are interwoven for day seven: a song that reminds you of a certain event.

The first time I ever went to Dublin was for a Religious Studies class trip to a mosque in Dundrum. Our bus driver tried to kill us and the mosque was unstoppably boring, but I loved everything about that day. The weather was beautiful, the mosque building was beautiful. I was just excited to be in Dublin. The streets were cleaner, the fact that signposts were in Irish was a novelty; my mommy had given me some euro to go to the Dundrum shopping centre afterwards. I was so wide-eyed about everything it's laughable now. I'd just starting listening to Ima Robot; schizophrenic, unashamedly hook-laden pop. When I fall in love with a song I will generally play it to death and won't be able to listen to it until years afterwards. I listened to Ima Robot for the first time in three years the other day and it made me smile because it sparked a hilarious, retrospective remembrance of being young and green.

* This will never be intended as a compliment on account of I detest kitchen sink realism. I wish everybody would stop telling me how great Shameless is; I'll never appreciate the humour because I can't get past how depressing it looks.

Thirty Days of Music- Part VI

2010-04-14T13:32:00.004+01:00

The Skibunny Club upstairs in Auntie Annies was, for many years*, a time-honoured tradition. Small, dank, mahogany-encased, and magical. Spending your Saturday nights dancing, smoking inside and drinking £1.50 bottles of Stella or shots of Schnapps was a rite of passage into an assemblage of people who seemed exceptional and unique. You could walk down the streets of Belfast and recognise somebody that you'd only ever see in a dimly lit, shadowy corner of the club; they'd have an instantaneous mystique. Skibunny engendered minor celebrities, epic, inebriated romances, heartache and friendships. It didn't matter whether or not it was false, or superficial, or never left the confines of the pub; Skibunny was a wondrous microcosm of the real world. At an age when every experience I was having was formative to my character, Skibunny introduced me to music the likes of which I'd never heard before. It was diverse; Wu Tang Clan sat comfortably beside Otis Redding, and it was good. I've heard some of the most fantastic, affecting songs in that club and years afterwards, I still don't know what they were.

My description sounds rose-tinted. It absolutely is. I have romanticised my Saturday night sanctuary beyond comprehension. I had stopped going long before the last club night, after spides**, presumably from the Wetherspoons across the road, infiltrated the place and it lost that feeling of exclusivity that made you feel like you were a part of something special. But for a couple of years, there wasn't anything else like Skibunny, and I had some of the greatest nights of my teenage life there.

Today is a song that reminds you of somewhere.

I'll never forget standing at the bar, tipsy, pink-eyeshadowed, red and white polkadotted, looking like a prepubescent cross-dressing boy, feeling like I wasn't quite cool enough to be there, and then hearing this song. Everything about it permeated my body; the modulated synths, the gut-wrench of the bassline, the cowbell. It was one of the first songs I'd heard that truly excited me, or as Jamie Fox would put it, gave me a 'musical boner'***. What a glorious (and slightly elitist) coming of age tale.

* Ten years and ten months, to be exact
** Belfastian colloquialism for a "knacker", or "chav"
*** Ludicrously uncouth, but we all know how thoroughly apt this phrase is

I am a nice shark, not a mindless eating machine!

2010-04-13T13:30:00.004+01:00
I can remember the first time I listened to “Breakfast in NYC”; it was heart-squelching pop in its purest form and instilled in me an unyielding elation. Oppenheimer’s début album was simple, bubbly and blithe; sentiments that Rocky O’Reilly, aka Kid 90210 and his musical allsorts presumably wish to call to mind with their new venture, Malibu Shark Attack!

The pieces of a delectably whimsical pop oddity exist within Malibu Shark Attack!; named after a straight-to-video movie about prehistoric goblin sharks, the band have assumed quirky alter egos (Kid 90210 is accompanied by La La Boulevard, Hammer Head and MC Dizzy Dustin), and an endearingly sincere ethos;

“M. S. A! is an experiment in music, collaboration and fun. It’s about cutting loose. It’s not about watching shows with folded arms while sucking on lemons. It is about the good times. It’s also about smashing your face through the bad times, with passion, conviction and with heart.”

In a month, the band has produced three songs for consumption. The vestiges of Oppenheimer are evident but it’s not quite Doppelheimer. There are magical Moog melodies and vocoders, disco drumbeats, ingredients for a fabulous, frothy pop delicacy. Yet a band in the fledgling throes of musical passion will, more often than not, encounter some teething problems. Especially if sharks are involved. The main problem appears to be that most of the songs lack immediacy. Whilst elements of the songs are indisputably catchy, they have thus far managed to find a grappling hook, appearing to pique just on the cusp of those precious moments of soaring pop. Taken as a whole, the music thus far lacks a certain lustre; a carbonated drink that tastes slightly flat.

Yet within each song the promise for fizz is plentiful. MC Dizzy Dustin’s rapping on “Plans for the Weekend” demonstrates his potential to sound like a flaccid Vanilla Ice, when given a soundtrack with a bite, such as “Jeff Van Fossen (WeShouldPlayThisParty)” he draws comparisons to Faith No More and Ninja High School, complemented by a driving dance beat and an undulating electro bass line. The programmed percussion is mercilessly vivacious, the distorted electric guitar, when put to use, is the perfect crunchy counterpart to frothy synths. “This Life” acts a cheering demonstration of the potential Malibu Shark Attack! has to yield colourful, quirky, compelling electro pop. A bubbly blend of Apples in Stereo guitar lines, the vocoder vocals of a composed Polysics and gang shouts, it’s simple, heartening and buoyant, proving that the band are at their best when they’re most animated. Their pop music is most effective when it has a more vigorous edge, rather than relying on unexciting falsetto and watery synth parts. I’m excited for the next instalment of the shark attack; hopefully it’ll turn into a bit more of an eating machine!*

Malibu Shark Attack! -This Life

* See: their lovely artwork

Thirty Days of Music- Part V

2010-04-13T12:45:00.003+01:00

Until the age of seventeen, I had never had a proper best friend. I don’t know why, but I never seem to be able to stick to people very easily.* It may be because I like my own company too much, it may be because I’m the sort of person who can fall violently in love with a person and out of love again in a week.** But I found one, by accident, at a bus stop on a night I wasn’t even supposed to be out. It felt very kismet, and exciting. I was thoroughly enamoured with my best friend. Not only was she beautiful and intelligent and creative, she was interesting. I don’t find many people interesting; I set my standards far too high because I want to live my life like it’s the screenplay of the most fantastical film. But I found my best friend interesting, because she was one of the few people I’d ever found that I could hold a conversation with, that held me. And I think she wanted to live her life like it was the screenplay of the most fantastical film too.

Day five is a song that reminds you of someone.

Interpol- Say Hello to the Angels

Every time I listen to the line “your hair is so pretty and red/ baby, baby you’re really the best”, it evokes wonderful memories of dancing, getting thrown out of botanical gardens, cherry cigarettes, Old English cider, long lunches, finding old furniture, falling off walls, mix tapes. I don’t particularly like Interpol, but I liked having a best friend, and I will always love this song.

* Psychoanalyze THAT!

Thirty Days of Music- Part IV

2010-04-12T20:30:00.005+01:00
Profuse apologies for my tardiness. I have poor time-keeping and exams to study for.

It’s bizarre that the same music prize that honoured Ms Dynamite also managed to commend I Am A Bird, the endlessly affecting sophomore offering from Antony and the Johnsons. Even the album artwork perfectly encapsulates the emotions invoked by song; a glossy black and white photograph of a stunningly beautiful but ultimately spoiled young woman- Candy Darling on her deathbed. Miss Havisham set to music.

Antony and the Johnsons conjure dark, Vaudevillean impressions of freak shows and gothic baroque, stained gospel and schizophrenic soul, all emanating from smoke-billowing concert saloons. One of the most gripping things about the music is that no matter how stirring and heart swelling it can sound on the surface, it’s always set off by a tortured undertone.

Today is a song that makes you sad.

Antony and the Johnsons- Fistful of Love

“Fistful of Love” is a sadomasochistic love song, romantic and concomitantly painful, a perfect example of the binaries that Antony Hegarty has put to work. His voice, laced with traces of soul legends Nina Simone and Otis Redding, has the force to carry the song to exhilarating, soaring heights and yet is strangely vulnerable- his vocals have a vibrato that could inspire tears. A poignant spoken word introduction by the eternally tormented Lou Reed is accompanied by a touchingly simple piano line which gradually swells to absorb soothing, soulful guitars, a jagged distortion and a stirring brass section. The instrumentation is so beautiful it has the potential to render “Fistful of Love” unstoppably uplifting, but the lyrical content is so unsettling that incidentally, there’s an underlying, arousing poignancy to every note. One of the few songs that has the potential to make me weep*

* Especially if I’m hammered. Drinking wine. By myself...

Vengeance is mine, I will repay.

2010-04-07T14:42:00.010+01:00

It is the epoch of glamorous unconventionality, when frontwomen dominate, adorned with eccentricities and scented with allure.

So Republic of Loose decided they’d benefit from a starlet at the helm.

Mick Pyro et al have fashioned a musical medium for their ‘Panther Queen’, Tara McCormack, who goes by the fanciful burlesque stagename T-Bone De Minxe.She is the perfectly parcelled leading lady; finely carved cheekbones, smouldering eyes, glossy hair, and festooned with spangles and sequins, her provocative image is tinged with a glittered grunge that complements the group's carefully crafted glam rock disco hybrid that's infused with remnants of Republic of Loose's funk-inflected melodies. Not only are Vengeance and the Panther Queen being championed by what Andy Falkous would havetermed the "technicolour crapfest" that is Hotpress, the outfit have been benefiting from what is arguably a more credible source of support in the form of State Magazine, who tipped VATPQ as one of their Faces of 2010

They've also played the IMRO showcase and are poised to support New York Dolls. A flurry of recognition is frothing

I'm slightly confused.

I under stand the intentions of this group; Missy Elliott lies companionably alongside Judas Priest in a list of influences in which a barrage of pop culture icons vye for attention, an indication of the projected eclectic musical miscellany. Flamboyant characters are assumed, supernatural backstories woven, presumably in an attempt to mythologise and shroud in mystique, magic and charm a band that otherwise, wouldn’t be all that remarkable. Their assemblage of idiosyncratic influences don't translate into the music, which at times sounds like a hackneyed hair band, and their fabulously feline frontwoman doesn't yet appear to have summoned a forceful or compelling stage presence. The legend of Vengeance and the Panther Queen is palpably half-baked on the basis of live performances, which lack inherent chemistry, mesmerising spectacle, or the thrilling ostentation that their fabled inception would lead you to expect;

Out of the the evilest jungle of Panthonia she crept, a deep hunger for human flesh in her sky-fibrous heart. To Hibernia, home of the Ancient Nihili who nest now only in the Rock. With Pyro, King of Fire did she couple, help his Nation of Loose did she. Disguise her person as human for years she hath, till lo, the Hour came when she was unleashed by Pyro, King of Fire, and chopped the heads of the insolent as though they were puny blades of grass, as the flames cleared her feline magnificence made corporeal in the Perfect rock of the Nihili...

Their début single 'Keep it on the Phone', released on the 20th March, couples an undeniably catchy glam rock guitar riff with '70s disco beats, but it is an ultimately colourless outing; the vocals sound stiff and ill at ease, and what should be intriguing oddities in the arrangement transcend quirk into the ludicrous, such as the intermittent chorus of bizarre, hammy male harmonies. Not spectacular enough to serve as a musical extravaganza, too serious to pin the absurdity on parody, Vengeance and the Panther Queen simply fall flat, it all seems a bit contrived, but poorly so. I remain unconvinced.Below is the music video for 'Keep it on the Phone'. Watch, listen, enjoy, or don't. The combination of options is interchangeable.

An addendum: I've got some Malibu Shark Attack* tracks to listen to, so I'll write a piece on them in the next couple of days. I'm very excited!

*Rocky from Oppenheimer's latest creation. How charming!

Thirty Days of Music- Part III

2010-04-07T13:33:00.004+01:00
Day Three is a song that makes you happy.

Several years ago I remember somebody sarcastically writing that they were going to slit their jugular with a Cure CD. It was an invective that has always stuck with me because I never quite understood it. Apart from Robert Smith’s ashen face, overuse of eyeliner and blood red lips, I don’t believe that any aspect of the band could be considered to be a trope of what is now considered to be ‘emo. If anything, the Cure, to me, are the antithesis, engendering a wealth of uncompromisingly buoyant pop songs; “Let’s Go To Bed”, “Friday I’m In Love”, “Lovesong”, “Boys Don’t Cry”.

One of my favourite Cure songs is “Just Like Heaven”, not simply because of the inexorable joy it instills in me; it spawned my favourite cover of all times, a song that renders me infinitely more happy than the original because it also happens to be covered by one of my favourite bands. Apparently it’s also Robert Smith’s personal favourite, though that wouldn’t be too difficult when the only notable contemporaries who appear to have attempted a rendition are Katie Melua and Goldfinger*

Dinosaur Jr. - Just Like Heaven

Throughout their music are threaded nuances of everything from noise rock to speed metal, though thankfully Dinosaur Jr. were, at times, predisposed towards what J. Mascis terms ‘wimpy, jangly stuff’ too. This fondness has facilitated a cover of “Just Like Heaven” that makes me supremely happy everytime I listen to it. Lou Barlow perfectly emulates the dynamic bassline, an infectious foundation that drives the rest of the song. The tempo is faster, the distortion is heavier and crunchier, and Mascis’ low-pitched, whiney drone lends a compelling apathy to the verses which chronicle a romantic story that involves kisses and hyperventilation. A classic Dino Jr. guitar solo, flecked with feedback, punctuates the song, giving it an indispensable boost and facilitating my frequent displays of air guitar virtuosity. Robert Smith has said that the cover inspired the Cure to rethink their live performance of “Just Like Heaven”, and it’s not suprising; although Dinosaur Jr.’s reinterpretation isn’t drastically different, it captures and augments the passion and vibrancy of a consumingly happy song.

* Though to their credit, they do an excellent version of Nena’s 99 Red Balloons which, for me, is on a par with Superchunk’s “Say My Name”. Power punk-pop at its finest. Delightful.

Thirty Days of Music: Part II

2010-04-06T11:47:00.009+01:00
Day Two is your least favourite song.

I wouldn't consider myself ardent in my appreciation of Burt Bacharach but I can readily acknowledge his merits. They include but are not limited to; being a heavy influence on Brian Wilson's style of songwriting, collaborating with Dre, extensive use of the flugelhorn. They do not, however, include writing the song "(They Long to Be) Close to You". It's a widely covered song; everybody from My Chemical Romance to Frank Sinatra's been at it, and I hate every version I've heard.*

And yet I find myself absolving Burt from culpability for this, my least favourite song. Partly because he was responsible for "Magic Moments". Partly because I despise the Carpenters.

They are the Same Difference of the '70s. They are pastel colours, semolina, your grandmother's yellowing lace tablecloth. I hate everything about them. Except the Babes in Toyland cover of "Calling Occupants of Interplanetary craft". But even that cannot go any way in redeeming the sickly siblings, because it's technically a cover of a cover and my contempt for them will not allow them to be responsible for a good song. Essentially, the Carpenters are mid-tempo apathy, and obnoxiously wholesome**

I hate everything about their cover of "Close to You".

The Carpenters - Close To You

One of the limpest piano parts I've ever listened to serves as an accompaniment to Karen Carpenter's deep, chesty vocals which possess the insipid cadence of a woman excavating the bowels of bland balladry. Surprisingly, even the feather-light snare and strings can't save the song from its own feebleness.

Perhaps what I hate most about "Close to You" is what arguably, is meant to be a clinchingly sincere love song, like everything else about the Carpenters, is simply depressing.

This setiment may or may not be related to the fact that I was listening to this song standing by a window looking out at the rain and crying on the day my cat was run over by a car. As a child, I really, really liked my cat.

*Except Isaac Hayes'. It's difficult to hate any music by a man who is affectionately referred to as Black Moses.

** Richard does, however, try to contest this unfair labeling by claiming that he has drank wine at dinner before and once voted to legalise marijuana.

Thirty Days of Music- Part I

2010-04-04T23:04:00.010+01:00

Drawing inspiration from Karl of "Those Geese Were Stupefied", I'm set to embark upon my own 'Thirty Days of Music' initiative. You can read about it on Karl's blog here

Day One is 'Your Favourite Song'

General Public - Tenderness

Formed from vestiges of English ska/reggae (skreggae?) band The Beat, with an ex-Dexy's Midnight Runner on drums, The Specials' former bassist and Mick Jones (!) on guitar, General Public were, ostensibly, a supergroup with a flair for film soundtrack fodder*. 'Tenderness' is off their 1984 début album 'All The Rage".
It’s a song that fails to overwhelm with its lyrical profundity, or ornate instrumentation. I’m almost entirely convinced that the only reason I even like it is because it featured in ‘Clueless’, a film that, along with ‘the Babysitters Club’ was taken out so frequently from the video shop during my formative years that my mother ended up trying to buy it from them. She can be kind like that sometimes**
Yet aside from being tinged with soft-focus nostalgia, ‘Tenderness’ is one of the most elevating pieces of music I’ve heard since The The’s ‘This is the Day’***, which, if it was allowed, would draw with General Public for the prestigious title of my favourite song. What makes ‘Tenderness’ so special to me is how unpretentious and earnest it is; an unashamed smattering of pure pop. A jangle pop melody, sugary backing vocals, hand claps (their magnitude is on a par with the cowbell in my humble opinion) and a soaring drum and bass line coupling. Each component is so unstoppably uplifting that collectively, they fashion a song which, no matter how many times I listen to it, never ceases to make my heart swell smilingly.

* Their songs were sampled frequently by Brat Pack don John Hughes
** When I was four years old I had a disturbing preoccupation with my cassette of Enya’s ‘Anywhere Is’. I wanted to know the lyrics so I could sing along so badly that my mom went into Our Price and stood with a small piece of paper and a pencil listening to the song on headphones until she’d copied down every single word.
*** It’s the song playing at the end of ‘Empire Records’ when they’re all dancing on the roof beside the neon record shop sign. Quite magical.

Gayng Wars

2010-04-04T18:04:00.014+01:00
I had the honourable intentions of writing an extensive, well-measured, intricately detailed piece extolling the virtues of the mix tape. Ok, I’ll admit it; the mix CD. I won’t be held accountable though; instead I’ll try and get away with blaming on a generational disparity. I’m so young I can’t even remember betamax format, I only caught the tail-end of VHS, and every time I press the ‘record’ button on my tapedeck and play it back there’s more static than an EVP recording because I clearly don't know how to use it) If anybody is willing to be my cassette sensei, it would be more than appreciated. I already have a horror sensei. Maybe I could have a troop of senseii to love me if I promised not to end having their much beloved bonsai tree brutally snapped by Cobra Kai because even after TWO films I’m still too much of a pussy to stand up to them (even in front of a girl) without a training session from a decrepit Japanese man first.

However.

After inhaling an entire Easter egg in just under five minutes I’m feeling slow, cumbersome and lazy so instead I’ll pass concise comment on the most recent over-hyped band that has been brought to my attention; Gayngs.*

Considering Gayngs, and their imminent début album Relayted, appear to have a penchant for quirky misspelling, preconceptions started to form as I began to affiliate them with Wavvvvvvvvvvvvves and their contemporaries, an assortment of substanceless ‘60s surf pop garage rock impersonators (incidentally, for my review of Girls’ Girls, click here).

I admit to being prematurely vitriolic and judgmental. How foolhardy and narrow-minded I was, for Gayngs sound nothing like this. If anything, they’re the musical antithesis.
Open-mindedness- 1, Pee- 0.

Gayngs are producer Ryan Olson, Zack Coulter and Adam Hurlburt from Solid Gold. Citing influences including 10cc, and peddling Godley and Creme covers, they’re purveyors of a dad-rock/R & B crossover. Despite the fact that the gayng are flanked by Justin “Bon Iver” Vernon, the Rosebuds’ Ivan Howard and the saxophonist from Andrew Bird’s band, it’s a musical blend that is as boring as it sounds. Whilst I await the release of their album, even a Stereogum comparison to Primitive Radio Gods isn’t enough to convince me. Here's a clip of "The Gaudy Side of Town". It’s insipid, smooth, lounge music.

If I wanted to listen to “Careless Whisper” I’d borrow my dad’s copy of George Michael’s Greatest Hits or Youtube Jamie Fox and karaoke. Equally, if I wanted to lounge (on a yacht sipping a highball cocktail circa 1982), I’d listen to Duran Duran’s “Rio” and not this. Even the reggae-infused bass and sporadic undulating synths can’t redeem its drabness.

If you DO want a musical treat, I strongly suggest downloading the aforementioned Primitive Radio Gods’ 1996 album Rocket. Alternative dream rock is infused with hip hop beats, flashes of funk, violins, a stream of samples and beautiful piano balladry. Not to mention some hilariously ludicrous lyrics including “I’m gonna spell it out so there ain’t no doubt, ‘cause I’m the one with the other, I’m a bad motherfucker, and my bullet’s gonna find you out”.
The best track on the album is arguably the quintessential ‘90s modern rock single “Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth with Money in my Hand”- gorgeous, heart-rendingly simple, a spectacular B. B. King sample and apparently features in the Jim Carrey film “The Cable Guy”! I have no idea what bearing that has on the quality of the song. Unless you like “The Cable Guy”. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never seen it. Otherwise, consider it a factoid.

Click here to download Rocket

Tomorrow: a list of reasons why I don’t care that the Libertines have reformed and why people who don’t think you should be allowed to like both Kathleen Hanna AND Courtney Love are spas.**

Which reminds me. Check out the website for Lollapalooza 2010. They’re releasing the line-up with a Wheel of Fortune style guessing game. If you want to play along, click here.

* I will of course reserve my final judgement until their album’s been released and I’ve listened to it. Maybe I’ll even end up having to admit I was wrong. I like doing that, it makes me feel like a bigger person. Though I'm not a very big person generally so I doubt it.

** I jest, I jest!

This has been anything but concise. I don’t think I’m capable of it. I apologise sincerely.

Midnight snacks in the mauseoleum

2010-04-03T15:18:00.010+01:00

So Beck has had the inspired idea of starting a musical book club. See here.

His ‘Record Club’ brings together an interchangeable mix of musicians to cover an entire album by another artist in only one day. An informal meeting intended to evoke spontaneous bursts of creativity, nothing is pre-prepared or practised.

Everything is rough, nothing polished, and, according to the Record Club’s mission statement; their purpose is “only to play music and document what happens”

Artists that have been involved thus far include Nigel Godrich of Radiohead fame (yawn), MGMT, Devendra Banhart, Wilco, Leslie Feist, St. Vincent, Liars, and, oddly Giovanni Ribisi, who apparently has nothing to do with music, but played the part of Pheobe Buffay’s brother Frank in Friends.

It’s a brilliantly simple concept and no doubt it’s a thrill for musicians to be involved in something so impulsive and unstructured; going into a studio and not knowing what you’re going to come back out with- a nice break from the ostensible regimentation of recording an album I’d imagine!

It seems to be working well- so far the albums covered have been The Velvet Underground, The Songs of Leonard Cohen, Skip Spence’s Oar and Kick by INXS.

The most recent song released has been INXS’s “New Sensation”, with St. Vincent and Angus from Liars on lead vocals. Also featured is Sergio Dias of Os Mutantes* (yay!)

Record Club: INXS "New Sensation" from Beck Hansen on Vimeo.

*Probably the main reason I made this post. I completely adore Os Mutantes, they sound like traditional tropicalia (essentially the Brazilian Beat Generation) band, the Beach Boys, the Beatles and, at times (or so I like to think), The Cramps, all rolled into one. If you’ve never listened, PLEASE download their début album (1968), inventively entitled “Os Mutantes”.

Os Mutantes factoid- Kurt Cobain wrote to them to personally request a reunion tour in the early ‘90s. Why or how the cornerstone of grunge came to love a Brazilian psychedelia band doesn’t matter, it’s simply more testament to their greatness!

You can download Os Mutantes’ “Os Mutantes” here.

You are not content with the stories, so I was obliged to come.

2010-04-03T02:51:00.007+01:00
Maybe it was David Cronenberg’s recent visit to Trinity College that incited my craving to re-watch The Fly, or the fantastically thrilling (I say this without a hint of facetiousness) essay I’ve just finished writing on The Exorcist and Catholicism (how apt, on this, the Good-est of Fridays), but I’ve developed a fledgling compulsion for horror, in film and literature form.

Apparently, it’s not simply sensationalism and self-indulgent gore for friendless fifteen year old boys who want to gawp at a bit of tit and intestine. Horror can actually be cerebral.
It can be moralistic, provide social commentary, satirise. It can be political. It can be psychoanalytical. It can even be quite funny sometimes.

O, Horror, how I misjudged thee. I can only try to make amends. It’s quite terrifying, being on the cusp of delving into an extensive cinematic canon that’s often the object of cultic devotion, but I’m excited too. It evokes the same feeling I have when I remind myself that I haven’t seen Braveheart yet, and I still have it to look forward to, that inimitable experience of discovering and falling in love with something. It can only happen once. On reflection, I can’t be entirely certain that I’m going to fall in love with Braveheart, but Jamie Fox has told me that it is one of the most romantic films of all times and that I will adore it. I trust him. Plus, if it is terrible then he might forgive me for making him sit through Drew Barrymore’s directorial début Whip It. Which has absolutely nothing to do with Devo. And is god awful.

So join me on a journey through the wretched realms of horror and its sub-genres; from b-movies, exploitation film and urban gothic, to slasher and splatter film, or, if you prefer, “gorno”*

Clive Barker’s Candyman (1992)

A searing slasher film. And one the most fantastic soundtracks I’ve heard in a long time; an ominous 8-bit rock opera that isn't chilling the slightest but super catchy!

Helen, a graduate student gathers research for her thesis on local urban legend the Candyman. It has been said if you look into a mirror and say “Candyman” five times, the hook-handed son of a slave who dresses like a pimp and has the most ludicrously deep voice of all times will appear and bring about your gruesome end.
Naturally, Helen thinks it'll be brilliant fun to “Candyman” into the mirror five times, and the requisite knife crime commences.

But what makes the film so fascinating is actually the psychological torture that Helen, played by an actress with freakishly perfect nipples (thank YOU gratuitous bath scene) is subjected to. Her previous scepticism towards the Candyman prompts him to bring about her destruction not by skewering her with his hook, on account of that'd be far too obvious and the film would only last about half an hour, but by framing her for a string of depraved crimes. of COURSE Helen, the chain-smoker with a thing for sponges didn't decapitate a Rottweiler, kidnap a baby or stab her best friend Bernie to death. it was sheer COINCIDENCE that she happened to wake up in a pool of blood clutching a kitchen knife every time.
(It actually was.)

Surprisingly, after blaming it all on a big black man with a hook for a hand who keeps on disappearing, Helen is committed. She eventually manages to escape by disguising herself as a nurse (the number of poor, unassuming people in the service industry who've been knocked unconscious and stripped of their clothes in films is shocking) and the rest of film build towards the climactic scene, the epic showdown between the Candyman and Helen during which the former tries to put his hook up the latter's skirt. The film also has one of the greatest cliffhanger endings, which had the potential to spawn a truly appalling sequel. Credit to the makers for not cashing in, though I'd imagine "Candywoman" has "so-toecurlingly-bad-it's-hilariously-good" written all over it.

Candyman is brilliant because it’s actually very clever, examining real-life and fictional horrors and the relationship between the two. How the urban legend, a mythologised figure can often be blamed for real and many evils in a society, like the refusal of a community to take responsibility, otherwise known as Burying-your-head-in-the-sand syndrome.

I think it's brilliant that Clive Barker based the Candyman on an actual urban myth he'd heard about in Liverpool- the legend of Purple Aki, a figure feared by generations of young children. One of his victims was said to have been so terrified he willingly threw himself in front of a moving train. Then, in 2001, the stuff of legends and overactive imaginations turned out to be true.

Purple Aki was real**

In summation- it’s relentlessly gripping with a fantastic back story and great acting, especially from the small black child with a lisp. Besides, when a film has a line in it like "I hear you're looking for Candyman, bitch" you know you're onto a winner

When viewing, keep an eye out for:
the woman at the beginning who literally has no breasts whatsoever, the “sweets to the sweet graffiti” (it’s a line from Hamlet!) and the scene when the bees swarm out of the Candyman’s mouth (they were real bees in his real mouth!)

Also bear in mind:
The fact that Sandy Bullock was considered for the part of Helen. Almost as bizarre as the word bizarre!

You can stream Candyman by clicking here.

* “gorno” is a hybrid word, an amalgamation of ‘gore’ and ‘porno’. Tasty.

** He was, in fact, a black body-builder who had a muscle fetish and used to force young boys to do press-ups while he felt up their arms. Pleasant.